


The implausible lovely

by heart_nouveau



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Freeform, Style Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:51:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heart_nouveau/pseuds/heart_nouveau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One hot, stolen moment in a corner of the Red Keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The implausible lovely

  

“Shh— _shh_ —”

Yellow sunlight pooling on the stone floor before them; her giddy laughter smothered tenderly in the palm of the older girl’s hand.

Her body crushed back onto the stone shelf of the alcove, where they fit imperfectly and exhilaratingly together. So terribly public, though, the open arched window that frames them in a soft-edged tableau for anyone who might happen through the profusion of the oldest, wildest corner of the garden.

“Anybody might—”

The other girl shaking her head, long curls dancing, eyes so bright. Lifting a finger to alluring lips in day-lily bloom, wordless _shhh_ of warning. The challenge of her face, her bright boldness, daring Sansa to see if they can do it and not get caught.

It is her first lover, her first affair, an evanescent fragment of impossibility that's been only intensified by everything else she is trying to avoid. She knows she can be daring as daring as her lover wants. Yes, she can.

Skirts pushed up, a crush of limbs, a tangle of bodies. Sweet fragrance and the salty tang of her confidante’s body underneath. Sansa leans close extends her tongue and tastes the salt of her lover’s sweat—relishing the animal sensation. A squirming twist, a squeak of gleeful shock, and the scolding bat of a hand is her reward, and... oh, how she likes it.

Her elusive turn of her neck, so that the older girl’s forthcoming kiss lands not on its intended target (her lips) but somewhere on her tender cheek. Her teasing denial, and the answering playful frustration. It’s all in good fun. They don’t mean it, not any of it, and that’s exactly why they are doing it.

She can no longer tell where her imitation of Margaery’s bold manner ends and her own desire begins. Fold up, fly up, she wants to inhabit, crawl into, _become_ Margaery. Slink skin-close, pressing tight, tighter, tightly. And Margaery, who seems to want so little—and so simply, when she does—she never lets on. She might coax Sansa to do anything, yet asks for nothing.

(until this _until now_ , & why does it matter, anyway?)

Ahh, it’s so hard to protest the kiss of that berry-sweet laughing mouth. So she doesn’t fight it. Was there ever such a captivated captive, tangled in so exquisite a net?

Sparkling motes of light as they move in and out of patches of sun, chasing each other in slender movements of pursuit and escape. Her ankle scraping painfully against the laddered stone as she jerks reflexively, a casualty of their sweet struggle.

When Margaery’s hands encircle her waist, it grounds her, pins her down, teaching and reminding her of earthly sensations. No need to float about in the ether, no need to spend her life with eyes closed and blue words on her lips like agonized prayers. _Gentle mother, strength of women..._ Being with Margaery is like worshipping at the altar of mindless delights. Staining her body with lightness, making it feel as if she were an ecstatic, airy shell. Warm kisses glowing on her outside and absolutely nothing... nothing on the inside.

It’s heady, though. How intoxicating to pretend that the worst thing, the greatest thing at stake is to be discovered in a hot corner of the Red Keep with another girl touching her where she shouldn’t be, stealing hands under their concentric mess of skirts, mouths open hot and melting as they breathe kisses all over each other’s skin. How beautifully strange, this vivid diversion. If only it could always be like this, if it always _were_ ,  
  


she would never have to remember how it is, really.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem of the same name by Leonore Wilson.


End file.
